"Well, old fellow!" said Harry. "Well, here I am," said Dick. And certainly there he was. Yet one might have questioned it. He appeared so different from the youth we saw long ago, answering to the name. His blue jacket and gilt buttons were gone. The showy cap with its anchor and little flag was also gone. He was as plain a young man in his suit of tweed, as one of his father's clerks. "When did you come home, Dick?" "I came here last week." "But when did you leave your ship?" 66 Oh, six months ago. But I did not come home then; I've been loafing about in the country since I landed, making the best of my relations and friends: you understand?" Harry did understand, and yet, as he looked at his former companion, he was entirely surprised. He had lost the vivacity of his former days; and there was a reserve about him, which even Richie had not failed to observe. "Come, Dick, you are shy, and seem afraid to speak to me. What has happened to make you so different?" "Oh, nothing; but I've given up the sea, you know." "Nay, I didn't know. What? Have you swallowed the handspike? "Well, I got tired of it." "Just so, I don't wonder," said Harry, coolly. 66 Why don't you wonder?" “Well, you are not fond of hard work, are you, Dick ? ” "I can't say that I am." "You were not born with an appetite for rope's ends, and old nails?" "Scarcely." "And I suppose when you got on board ship, a little hard work, and sometimes rather rough fare?" "Rather." "Ah, ah, old boy; I know you. You thought you could do the work with your kid gloves on, and you found that you couldn't; you had to take them off." 66 Yes, but I ought not to have been worked like a galley-slave." "But was there nothing beside the work which frightened you? "There was, Harry." "What?" Dick looked into the face of his friend, uttered a faltering word or two, and then burst into tears. "Oh, I am sorry I have pressed you with my questions. Pardon me." 66 Harry, I have nothing to pardon. You were not to blame in asking me, only I shrink from recalling even what I have seen." Sailors are usually ready enough to relate their adventures. Though Dick had been a sailor only for a few months, he had had his adventure, but never to his dying day did he care to relate it. He sailed in a fine emigrant ship for New Zealand; taking out a company of people numbering over five hundred souls. The outward voyage was prosperous in every respect, and Dick had nothing of which to complain, save that he found his work more arduous than he cared for, and the voyage somewhat monotonous. He would have liked to call at every port, to have gone ashore, and to have amused himself with the sight of the countries and peoples which lay along the route. Instead of this the ship kept well out to sea, and almost every day there was nothing but the same great waste of waters in view. On the return voyage, which was round the Cape of Horn, the ship brought a large number of colonists, many of whom were returning to England after a long residence away from their native shores. After getting well away from New Zealand the ship entered upon a stormy course, which it was destined to pursue for many days. On the deck was cattle sufficient to stock a small farm; intended for food along the voyage. The poor animals however, were so tossed, and drenched with the seas which broke over them, that many died after only a few days, and before a fortnight was gone the one remaining ox, being hopelessly ill, was cast into the sea, and with it the last hope of roast beef for several months perished. Yet this was but the beginning of sorrows. After running for five weeks without having sighted land, or even seen a sail, the ship labouring every day through tempestuous seas, and the passengers being half dead either with sickness or with fear, the captain was compelled to give the order to still further shorten sail. Up into the rigging sprang the brave seamen and climbed in a moment to dizzy heights above, the wind all the while howling around them, and doing its utmost to tear them from the slender ropes to which they clung. With fearful heart and not with so clever a hold Dick Waring climbed along with the rest. He found himself at length standing upon a rope and leaning his body over one of the yards, assisting to reef one of the great sails; some fifty feet below were the surging waves. Dick tried to close his eyes to the awful scene around him and attend simply to his duty, and was succeeding well, when by a sudden swing of the yard upon which he leaned he was thrown from his place, and dropped like a stone into the boiling depths beneath. There was a cry of terror from every part of the ship. "A man overboard! A man overboard!" Dick's fall had been seen by many: the captain saw it. The ship at that moment was making but little way, yet she was quickly beyond the spot where the lad fell. To rescue him was difficult, almost impossible. For to put the ship about was still further to endanger her and her living freight. Nevertheless this was done with a promptitude which was marvellous. The ship returned upon her track. Twenty brave fellows sprang into the lifeboat and were launched upon the surge. They rowed for some time looking with anxious eyes for their drowning companion, and, as by a simple miracle, they found him. For Dick could swim well, and after rising to the surface had succeeded in keeping himself afloat, though only with the very faintest hope that he would be seen. He was brought on board exhausted, unconcious. Careful nursing, however, served to bring about his recovery, and when he landed in England again he was physically no worse for his adventure, while morally he was considerably better. That awful plunge, the indescribable sensations, the mental agonies had made an impression upon him which no years could efface. Dick related these things to Harry as well as he was able, but, said he: "This is once for all: please do not ask me to refer to it again.” A few friends had been invited to spend that evening at Daisy Bank with Harry, who was to leave home again in a couple of days. It was only after great pressure that Dick was induced by Harry to join them. However he came, and met with as much teasing and annoyance as he expected. At his own desire his wonderful escape had not been generally made known. There were several at the party who remembered his dandy appearance, and his boastful talk on the occasion of Joe's birthday, and they felt the temptation to twit him with these things more than they could resist. "Well, captain," said a playful youth, one of a number who were standing together in the garden, "have you discovered the northwest passage yet?" 66 No, but he discovered the passage home again very soon!" said another. "He didn't go to the north-west at all," said a third young fellow; "he went south-east to the Cannibal Islands. Don't you remember how he described them to us before he had seen them, and showed us the revolver with which he was going to shoot half a dozen of them at a time? Oh, Dick, you were a brave fellow!" "At least he meant to be," said the first youth, who stood at his elbow. Dick was beginning to feel angry with his tormentors, when Ellen, who had been told by Harry of what was going on, came to his rescue. "Mr. Waring, we are going to have croquet, and I want you kindly to come to my side.' Dick expressed in a look the gratitude he felt to his fair deliverer, and immediately followed her; while the others either joined in the game or began other amusements. But there were several besides Dick Waring who reflected that if one is going to do great things it is better to get them done before he says much about them. The distance between the intention and the accomplishment is so much greater than it seems: one does not know before the attempt is made whether the various stages in that distance, stages marked by firmness, perseverance, and self-denial, can be actually passed. 188 BY THOS. STONELEY, Author of "Papers for Thoughtful Boys." VII.-ECONOMY OF TIME. "Without a plan my moments run to waste; The fluctuating quality of fools; Without a plan the understanding sleeps, The memory's loaded, and the judgment weeps." "Time wasted is existence,-used, is life.”—YoUNG. IME is one of God's great gifts to us, the very greatest perhaps in some respects. So far as this world is concerned, it limits the existence of all the rest; and if not improved, it will limit them absolutely. Those who turn it to proper account will carry the fruits of it with them to a higher sphere; whilst those who neglect or abuse it will suffer eternal eclipse. It is essential to mental improvement, indeed to improvement of every kind, to be regular and economical in the disposal of time. A moment is too precious a thing to be wasted. He who gives all other things liberally, gives to all the world but one moment at a time, and recalls it before He deals out another. A woman in the agonies of despair cried out to those who sought to comfort her, "Call back time again! If you can call back time again, then there may be hope for me; but time is gone!" "Millions of money for an inch of time!" cried Elizabeth, the Queen of England, upon her dying bed. But so great is the worth and excellence of time that all the treasures of the world cannot protract, stop, or call back one minute. And yet, alas! how many moments are squandered: wasted in desultory trifling, in indecision as to what shall next be set about, or commencing what it is impossible to complete, or neglecting what is emphatically the work of the day, and which, perhaps must be done now or never: this is often the case for want of a plan. It would be well for every one, after a careful consideration of her own condition and responsibilities, to make out a set of rules for the arrangement of time. In forming such rules, due regard must be had to the relative importance of the several pursuits. A suitable time will be allotted to each, and no one be permitted to intrench on the claims of another. By having regular hours for the different employments of the day, that dangerous waste will be avoided which arises from uncertainty what to set about next, and time will be secured for every object of real importance. In this general distribution of time, provision should be made for unavoidable interruptions and delays, and for the filling up of odd minutes, by having a useful book always at hand. For such a purpose, a sententious work is to be preferred; one, for instance, of maxims or anecdotes, in which a short portion may be read, and the book laid aside without breaking in upon the sense: such are the Select Remains of Mason, Cecil, Newton, &c. The well-known maxim, "Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves" is equally applicable to time. Take care of the minutes, and the days and the years will be secured to a valuable end. There is scarcely anything to which the injunction of our Lord more strictly applies than to time, "Gather up the fragments that nothing be lost." I shall not attempt to lay down any particular rules for the occupation of the various hours of the day. That indeed would be impossible. Particular duties must always appertain to particular situations; and since the necessary claims upon our attention are as varied as our individual circumstances, that which in one would be a right employment of time, would be a culpable breach of duty in another. There are, however, a few general rules which cannot be too clearly or too deeply impressed upon the mind-rules which the rich and the poor would be equally benefited by adopting; which the meanest and the most exalted individual would alike find it safe to act upon and by which the wisest and best of mankind might increase their means, and extend their sphere of usefulness to their fellow creatures. The first of these rules is to accustom yourselves every morning to say what you are intending to do; and every night, with equal faithfulness, to say what you have actually done during the day. If you find any material difference between what you have intended, and what you have achieved, try to proportion them better, and the next day, either lay out for yourself less, or, what is far better, endeavour to accomplish more. That is the more to be recommended, because we learn both by experience and observation, that whenever we bring down our good intentions to a lower scale, it is a certain symptom of some failure either in our moral, intellectual, or physical power. Still there is much allowance to be made for the inexperience of youth, in not being able to limit good intentions by the bounds of what is practicable, it is therefore preferable that a little should be taken off, even from what is good in itself, rather than that you should go on miscalculating time and means to the end of life. A second rule I would lay down, is, if possible, of more importance than the first. It is that you should always be able to say what you are doing, and not merely what you are going to do. "I am going to be so busy—I am going to get my work-I am going to get my lesson-I am going to visit a poor neighbour." These, and a hundred other goings,' with the frequent addition of the word 'just' before them, are words which form a net-work of delusion, by which hundreds of really well-intentioned young persons are completely entangled. I am just going to do this or 6 |